


Parchment

by undun



Series: 4x2 [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, Disability, M/M, alternative ending, canon non-compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 11:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5289734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undun/pseuds/undun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry defeated Voldemort, of course. Exactly what did it cost him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parchment

**Author's Note:**

> This series of fics was my first foray into writing fan fiction. Circa 2003.  
> Disclaimer: This work is a non-profit pastiche. No infringement upon existing copyrighted material is intended.

I’m standing in exactly the same spot. It’s Spring now – the grass is green; the air is warm. There is no trace of Tom Riddle left, no sign of what has occurred. I guess some would say that the wound has healed over – I wouldn’t. I see him every night during my sleep. I see him throwing curses. I feel the pain as I watch them fall around me… over and over again. And that one tattered figure, twisting into impossible shapes as an ever-renewing ‘Crucio!’ engulfs his emaciated form…

This green grass seems obscene to me.

There should be a sign, some indication that this is the spot. But others would disagree. No doubt he would disagree.

*** *** ***

Preparing for NEWTs. Am I the only one who is wondering how we can just stick our heads in textbooks and yards of parchment and just damn well forget? Was it some kind of mass delusion? A shared dream? More like nightmare.

Yards of parchment.

I run my fingertips over the surface – best not press too much or it will wrinkle. Dry and raspy. Better not leave fingerprints, or the ink will be repelled by the oil from my skin. His skin is the colour of fresh parchment now. On that day it was chalk white -– the punctuation in red. Do I repel him?

I lifted him. As thin as he was, I still staggered under the burden. I carried him into the castle – triage in the entrance hall. Madam Pomfrey gasped at the sight of him. I couldn’t hear her of course and, even if my ears hadn’t been permanently deafened at that point, I doubt that I would have anyway – the chaos and activity would have prevented any but the loudest voices from being heard. But I saw the puff of warm air escape her oh-shaped mouth, and I hadn’t forgotten seventeen years of the audible world – I can hear in my head. Sometimes far too much.

I watch lips now. Expressions. His is the only one I can’t read.

I miss his voice.

*** *** ***

Another day, another pointless step closer to leaving school. I think Hermione is worried about me - she doesn’t say much, but I can see it in her face. My grades are fine. I don’t know what she expects of me. I’ve never been the life of the party really. At least there was Quidditch before. I don’t play now – too hard to see lips from a distance. I suppose they could have rigged some magical device up for me but my heart wasn’t really in it. I can’t seem to let go. I can’t laugh anymore.

I’ve handed him my assignment. He thanks me, looking me straight in the eye. I can read his lips – he never used to move them that much. It used to come out as a clenched, hissing mutter – lips barely parted. For some reason I can feel my own lips lifting at the corners.

I think I just smiled.

*** *** ***

Hermione’s face is crowding in on me, ‘Come on Harry’ she says, ‘It’ll be fun!’. I look at Ron standing silent at her side. Like Snape, his lips are different now. Now he keeps them closed, barely parting them when he talks, except when he talks to me. I can guess this means that he is talking about me and doesn’t want me to know. Ever the transparent one. He nods at me now, forcing a smile, ‘Come on, mate! You need to get out. We’ll get some butterbeer at The Three Broomsticks.’

I watch his lips trail off hopelessly on the last ‘s’. He knows I won’t be going. I suppose it’s good that they’re still asking – their dedicated friendship has been, and continues to be, a constant in my life.

I shake my head and thank them for asking. Their heads lean closer as I speak, apparently I whisper now – ‘I really just want to stay here and relax for a while. Thanks anyway, guys. Have fun, won’t you?’ Hermione hugs me, promising to bring back some sparkling chocolate, and Ron gives me a bone-jarring slap on the shoulder before they leave for Hogsmeade. The castle seems vast without them.

Taking a wander through the castle, I find myself heading dungeonward after about half an hour of bright upper floors, which only creates in me a yearning for the dark. I run into Malfoy – literally. After I pick myself up, I apologise. I haven’t managed to compensate for the lack of ability to hear footsteps approaching from around a corner. His eyes look hollow, the fight has gone out of him. His face is chalk white. He looks like me.

He nods and walks on. We are like ghosts, only we forgot to die before we started haunting. I watch him disappear around the corner wondering what his future will be. His wealth has no doubt been impounded; his parents are in Azkaban, and his prospects for earning a living do not look promising.

At length I find myself in the Potions classroom. Like I couldn’t see that coming! It makes me smile at my own inability to fool myself. I step up to move closer to his desk. It reminds me of a pulpit in a Muggle church, and that makes me smile again at the analogy of Snape as a dedicated Man Of The Cloth – a spiritual guide. I can feel the air escaping my mouth in gusts as my stomach clenches and unclenches in a comfortable way. I think I’m laughing. I’m doubling over now, can’t stop. On the knees is much easier – can’t fall over so far. As the fit fades, I wipe the tears off my face. God, I haven’t laughed like that…

He’s here.

Of course I can’t hear him. I can smell him though. Taking a deep breath I catch it again – an herbal scent – what else? And something metallic. Probably tiny particles of his beloved cauldrons. He had his cauldrons to return to afterwards, and although I had nothing I am glad that he had something.

Should I turn? He would have moved into my field of vision if he wanted to be seen. I opt to respect his privacy, his need for secrecy. God knows I certainly need it myself. Allowing him plenty of time to move, I clamber to my feet and turn to the doorway.

He’s still there. I can feel the surprise on my face, though he probably thinks I’m surprised to see him, it’s not in the way he thinks. I’m surprised he didn’t take the chance to leave – that he chose to face me. Alone.

‘Hello.’ I venture in greeting.

‘Potter,’ he nods. I suppose the word itself is impersonal, but there’s something about his face that warms me. Perversely, I shiver. He takes a step toward me.

‘The dungeon classrooms can be chilly even in warm weather.’ He’s enunciating perfectly. I feel another shiver coming on and wrap my arms around myself. ‘What was so spectacularly funny just then?’

I muffle a snort, with no idea how successful I’ve been. ‘I was imagining you in a Muggle pulpit, sermonising on the evils of the world,’ I look behind me at his high desk. There’s a current of air and I turn my head to see that he is quite close now. There’s a quirk at the edge of his mouth, as though it wants to smile and can’t quite get the energy. He does look tired.

“Really?” His rich voice flows over me and I close my eyes, let it tickle every sense I have - interpreting every possible nuance of that impossibly long word. He has said a sentence, declaimed a passage from The Illiad, uttered Browning’s best – all in one word.

And that’s when I cry.

“Harry. Harry, what is it?” Since when have I been Harry? He grabs my face and turns it to his, making sure I can see his mouth. I start laughing, and that is so confusing because now I can’t work out whether I’m devastated or happy beyond all reason.

“Your voice.” My throat is closing up, choking out my whisper. I guess that’s going to take some work. I’m trying to stop crying, stop laughing, and tell him, tell him–

“Shh. Calm down, Harry. Everything will be fine. Take a deep breath–” He holds my face, enunciating every single word, he doesn’t let me look away – I can really see. Everything.

“Snape, you git!” I grip his greasy head, “I can hear you!” God, not more tears! I pull him closer until I can bury my eyes in his robe, blot up some of the free-flowing salt water.

“What?”

He pushes me roughly away from his body to stare. I’m nodding like a lunatic around my tears, sniffing juicily. I don’t care, it sounds wonderful. Suddenly I’m enveloped in surprisingly warm, black-clad arms. He’s squeezing the breath out of me and I’m trying to decide if I care enough to voice a protest – there are worse ways to die. As if this thought has jumped from my head to his, he releases me just as quickly. Too quickly, because I end up on my knees once more. I guess it’s a bit of a shock. In fact the room is looking kind of… pale?

“Professs–” That does it. Now I think I’m fainting – I feel my head hit, but no pain.

None at all.

*** *** ***

There are torches flickering when I come to. I look around at the room. I’ve never been here before. My head aches. Wait, the torches, there’s something weird about the torches.

“You’re awake. How do you feel?”

I gingerly turn my head. He’s put a pillow under it. And this must be his chambers. I’m lying on something like a chaise lounge – all black with green braided piping around the edges. He’s standing by my side holding a goblet of wickedly smoking something.

“I didn’t hear your footsteps,” I say without really thinking, and then it hits me – I can’t hear the torches hissing or the fireplace crackling. He holds his potion out to me and I accept it automatically.

“No one ever hears my footsteps, Potter. You should know that.” I can hear the smile in his voice – the barest suggestion of it around his mouth. “And how does it feel to be back in the land of the hearing population?”

I take a deep breath. He interrupts me – “Drink first, then talk.” I eye the concoction in the goblet.

“What exactly is it?” And is it habit that keeps my eyes on your face at every opportunity?

“Headache draught. Not that you need it all that much. Fell on the densest part of your anatomy, didn’t you?” He sneers. I sneer back at him appreciatively. His eyes hold a glint of laughter. I take a swig – not bad. I think I can finish it.

“Professor,” I begin. He interrupts me again.

“Oh? Professor now, is it? And what happened to ‘Git’? I assume it was a term of endearment?”

Luckily he’s still got that glint in his eyes.

“Of course it was, Git.” I smile. But I’m forgetting what I wanted to say…

“Potter, I’m warning you…”

Hah! That dog doesn’t bite anymore. I’m sure of it. I’ve looked into his face, watched his mouth, and read his eyes. I know why he’s been hiding it all. “Oh?” I mimic his tone, “Potter now, is it? And what happened to ‘Harry’?”

“I didn’t call you that!”

A wave of weakness takes me and I drop my head back to the soft pillow, handing him the empty goblet. He places it on the floor and crouches beside me, bringing his head level with mine.

“I took the liberty of adding some sleeping potion to the draught. You looked like you could use it.”

I just have enough energy to throw out “Git!” before–

‘Harry’, spoken in black velvet, drifts into my non-dreaming state.

*** *** ***

Professor McGonagall is seated in front of the fire when I next awaken. I must have stirred unconsciously because she knows the moment I open my eyes and rises from her chair.

‘Mr. Potter,’ she mouths precisely at me, ‘I believe congratulations are in order?’ No. No, no! I know that I’m yelling. I can feel my neck stretched and straining. I know I should be hearing – Snape! Professor, where the fuck are you?

Poor McGonagall has no clue. She turns to face what I’m guessing is Snape’s approaching figure, utter bafflement written on her face.

“Harry, what is it? Stop yelling, you prat -- I’m right here!” and finally I see him, all furrowed brow on parchment skin.

“I…” and I can hear myself again. Taking some deep gulps of air I try to explain. “I couldn’t hear Professor McGonagall, I couldn’t hear my own voice!” which is still a pathetic whisper.

He turns to McGonagall, “Minerva, could you say something?” She blinks at him a few times, then looks at me, ‘How are you feeling, Mr.Potter?’.

“No, nothing!” I am shaking my head, as if they can’t hear me. “What the hell is happening?” McGonagall’s head is turned to Snape, she is talking and I’m not getting much of it – ‘pathetic’ or is it ‘sympathetic’?

“Please, I can’t hear – what?”

Snape looks guilty when he meets my eyes. What the hell has he done?

*** *** ***  
TBC in ‘Green Shirt’.


End file.
